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  “Are they in the drawing room?” Mary inquired to the butler.

  “Yes, m’lady,” Mr. Hunter said. “Your brother wishes to have a word.”

  “Does he? About my nephew’s latest accomplishment, no doubt. Tell him I’ll see him at dinner.” She turned to the stairs. “I desire a bath.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” He bowed, giving no outward signs of surprise to her avoidance of the drawing room or her brother.

  It was not that she was avoiding her family as much as that she wanted time to herself, especially after the unbidden thoughts of Duncan—thoughts she had tried not to think except for in the most guarded of moments. She would venture back downstairs after a long, hot bath, a letter to her dear friend Arabella, and a nap.

  Or so she thought. No sooner did she reach the top of the stairs than her brother caught up to her.

  “Not so quick,” Drake said. “This is one missive you won’t want to miss.”

  He took the steps two at a time, brandishing a bit of parchment.

  Turning, a hand on the railing, Mary quipped, “For your sake, I hope this is brief. I smell of horse and am eager to retire to my room.”

  Instead of answering, he leaned in and sniffed, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “To me, you don’t smell any differently than normal.”

  She swatted his arm then grinned. “Let me guess. Theo wrote his name?”

  Drake knew she adored her nephew, and so he apprised her daily of two-year-old Theo’s achievements. Although, given how much time she spent in the nursery, she was just as often the one sharing news.

  “Not today.” He laughed, flourishing the paper with a flick of his wrist. “This, little sister, is an invitation.”

  She waited, foot tapping, eyebrows raised.

  “An invitation to take tea tomorrow with Colonel Sean Starrett and his family.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  The blood drained from her face.

  She shivered, chilled to her toes.

  However jovial her brother acted, she could not think of a rational reason for such an invitation. In all the years Duncan had been away, his father had not once issued an invitation. Her brother may have indulged Mary’s childish infatuation with their neighbor, but the truth was that she was a duke’s daughter, and Duncan was only the son of a colonel. Though blue blood ran through Starrett veins, the colonel was a youngest son, as was Duncan. The families did not share a close friendship.

  Ten months without a word from Duncan, and now his father was inviting them for tea. Mary closed her eyes to fight a wave of nausea.

  Swallowing, she asked, “Whatever for?”

  She gripped the banister for strength. The thought of the colonel telling them over tea and biscuits what had become of his son was too much for her. Let Drake go alone and bring her the news in private.

  Drake’s expression sobered. “I’m a horse’s arse for teasing, Mary. I should have approached this differently. Let me start again. He’s alive, the letter says. Alive and home.”

  Mary pressed a fist to her mouth, stifling a sob.

  “The colonel warns that his son is still recovering from an injury, but he is well and desires our company.”

  “An injury? What sort of injury? Why did he not write the invitation himself? How long has he been home? Why did he not write to say he was coming home?” Her ten months of fretting coupled with five years of waiting flooded her with emotion. She hungered for knowledge. Oh, Duncan!

  Drake grasped her upper arm. “He’s home. That’s what matters.”

  Nodding, she squeezed shut wet eyes, reaching blindly for her brother’s coat. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a reassuring embrace.

  When he released her, his face returned to the laughing man she was accustomed to seeing.

  “Now,” he said, “shall I accept the invitation or tell the colonel you decided you’d rather accept one of the marriages Mother arranged?”

  “Oh! Oh, you!” She could not help herself. She laughed. Even while rubbing the heel of her hand across her wet cheek, she laughed.

  For the rest of the day, all she could think of was Duncan. He was alive. And he was home.

  Colonel Duncan Starrett leaned against the hearth mantel, an arm propped against the marble, his chin resting against his fist. At any moment she would arrive. They would have half an hour in front of a curious audience to rekindle the six-year-old love affair that had kept him alive during his darkest moments of the Flanders Campaign.

  He winced as his foot spasmed.

  It would be the longest and shortest of half hours. He wanted an eternity with her, not thirty minutes. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her how much he had missed her and thought of her every second of every day. And yet he was unsure if he could sustain a smile for such a length of time. Already, exhaustion wore him thin.

  Would she find him much changed? Though they had written throughout their time apart, did she still care for him?

  He would not admit it when at war, but he had feared to read each letter, worried it would contain her admission that her mother was right—she must marry someone of her station. Part of that fear stemmed from the relief he worried he would feel. How wretched it was to think he would find relief in her marrying someone else. Duncan could not bear to lose her, but keeping her meant giving up his career or, worse, weighing her down with an invalid of a husband.

  Running his fingers through his hair, he pounded a fist against his thigh, trying to stop the persistent spasm that worked from his spine through his thigh and down to his foot.

  Eyes trained on the parlor door, he imagined how she would appear walking into the room. Vivacious. Bright eyed. Full of energy and life. She had only been sixteen when he last saw her. She was now one and twenty. Would he find her much changed? His heart thudded an anxious rhythm.

  His father, Colonel Sean Starrett, stepped into the room, all five foot nothing of him, with his white hair, bushy brows, limp, and smile.

  “Well, my boy, are you ready to win her heart all over again?” his father asked, ambling to a chair by the hearth.

  “This was your idea, not mine,” Duncan mumbled.

  With a hearty laugh, his father said, “Shall I send a footman to intercept His Grace and tell them to turn around?”

  Duncan grunted and pushed himself away from the mantel, his destination the chair. When his father made a quick move to stand and help him, Duncan shooed him, impatient. He was determined not to appear helpless or doddering in front of her. With slow and determined steps, he made it to the chair, only a slight stabbing pain from back to heel. He dared not sit. Once seated, he would need help rising, and that would not do for when she walked into the room. No, when she walked in, he would be on his feet. A man.

  Posing in front of the chair, ready, hoping the wait would not be long, he said, “This is foolhardy. You should have written that I no longer wish to see her.”

  “And listen to my broken-hearted son sob over his breakfast every morning to have lost the love of his life?”

  Duncan cast him a steely glare.

  There was little in this world that would make him happier than seeing her again. But how does a war hardened soldier admit he feared the reunion?

  Smoothing a hand over his slate blue coat, he tugged at the embroidered hem. How long it had been since he wore something other than his uniform he could not say. The clothes, newly tailored, fit to perfection, and yet they felt foreign.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. Then unclasped and clasped again in the front. Releasing his hands, he hung them at his sides, rounding back his shoulders.

  “Stop fidgeting, son,” his father said.

  The door opened, racing Duncan’s pulse, but it was only his brother Quinn and his mother Georgina, ready to join for tea. They, too, were all smiles. In fact, Duncan was the only one not smi
ling. He gave his lips a twitch to see if he remembered how. It had been a very long time indeed.

  A footman stepped into the parlor before his mother had taken her seat. “The ducal coach has arrived.”

  Chapter 2

  Lady Mary stepped out of her brother’s carriage and took his arm. Though she had not been to Cois Greta Park in nearly five years, she did not look about her to see if aught had changed. Her eyes remained trained on the butler awaiting them at the front door.

  She was not nervous.

  She was petrified.

  Stiff limbs moved her forward, her hand tense on Drake’s sleeve. She summoned courage to face whatever awaited on the other side of the front door. Five years was an awfully long time.

  Her heart in her throat and her chin held high, she followed the butler into the foyer and down a short hall. Only vaguely was she aware of digging her nails into her brother’s arm. When they reached the first door, the butler hesitated long enough for Mary to suck in a breath and brace herself.

  “His Grace the Duke of Annick, and the Lady Mary Mowbrah,” the butler announced, stepping aside for them to enter the parlor.

  Bows and a curtsy greeted them. A flurry of activity occurred around her as people moved and talked, but she stayed rooted. She scanned the faces, her breath short, her pulse racing.

  And there he was.

  Duncan in the flesh.

  His lips curved into a smile as he stared back at her. Five years faded in that single glance. Her stomach fluttered to see the all too familiar smile, punctuated by the sensual cleft in his chin. For a moment that stretched into eternity, the two eyed each other, all others present fading away with the lost years.

  In a less than discreet sweep of her eyes, she took in his physique. Broad shoulders, wide chest, tapered waist, and masterful thighs replaced the boyish slenderness she recalled. Her fingers itched to touch him. Was he still ticklish around the soft sides of his stomach? His coffee brown hair was closely cropped, his cheeks smoothly shaven, his eyes alight with wonder. By some miracle, neither of them rushed forward to embrace each other, though her arms longed to wrap around his neck.

  “Mary…. Mary….”

  A voice repeated her name, but she could not make out whose or from where.

  “Mary, do be seated.”

  As though spoken from a distance, the voice of her brother interrupted her admiring. Turning, she realized Drake stood at her side, indicating a chair.

  Reality intruded, abrupt and rude.

  With a glance to the others in the room, she gave an acknowledging nod and sat on a comfortable cream-colored chair. The connection between her and Duncan may have been disrupted, but she was ever aware of his presence.

  Before anyone could speak, the butler returned with a steady stream of footmen carrying various dishes and arranging them around the sizable table nestled in the center of the circle of chairs. There were enough plates of sweets and savories to keep them nibbling all afternoon. Mrs. Starrett served the tea as everyone chatted. Neither she nor Duncan spoke, though their eyes flitted to each other between the passing of tea saucers.

  The more she glanced at him, the more she noticed little differences from the man she knew. How had she not seen them instantly?

  His gentleman’s complexion was now tanned with a tautness to his forehead. Shadows haunted the underside of his eyes. His nose, that once straight nose, was slightly crooked, as though it had been broken and poorly set. He looked older, more than what five years should have aged him. She had known him at first sight, and yet studying him, she hardly knew him at all, and what a curious thought that was.

  Her observations did not diminish her attraction to him. On the contrary, they enhanced her physical awareness of him. The bridge of his nose added an aura of danger and mystique his youthful wholesomeness had not afforded. The width of his chest was at once formidable yet tantalizing. Mary’s memory of his lithe softness was in stark contrast to the muscular soldier before her, and it made him all the more dashing.

  “So you’ll know now he’s a colonel, like his dadaí,” his father was saying when Mary made an effort to listen.

  She looked up, startled. “A colonel?” A quick glance to her brother provoked a wink.

  Duncan set down his teacup and saucer with a gentle but commanding motion. “I advanced in December. Unlike my father who bore his rank for years, I only held it for a handful of weeks before returning to England.”

  His voice was much like his movements, gentle but commanding. The timbre had changed from the voice of her memory. Somber now, less lighthearted. But then, he had only spoken briefly.

  So distracted by him, it took long moments for his words to sink in. Had he returned to England so long ago? And without a word to her?

  Addressing Duncan, his father said, “But no less noble, son.”

  “I don’t doubt the confusion ahead of us.” Duncan squeezed his thigh, rubbing a hand against his breeches. “Every social we attend will be the same.” In a high-pitched voice, he said, “‘Allow me to introduce Colonel Starrett. Oh, yes, and this is Colonel Starrett, as well.’ Then the conversation to follow. ‘Colonel. Colonel. Yes, good to meet you Colonel and Colonel.’” His smile widened as he joked.

  Mary laughed along with the others. Duncan’s jests lightened the tension notably.

  “I have devious plans to use this to my advantage. Imagine attending a soiree uninvited only for the rumor to get out that Colonel Starrett was at fault. All will immediately think of my father rather than me.” Duncan’s good humor continued to set everyone at ease.

  Before Mary could interject, the elder Colonel Starrett, Duncan’s father, turned to Drake.

  “I hear you’ve a wee one now, but no thought of the Starretts, eh? Not brought him around for us to see, never mind you spent your youth here more than home.”

  Drake chuckled. “I’ve been a neglectful neighbor, have I? I would blame my travels, for we’ve been out and about for concerts since I debuted my latest composition, but the truth is I’m a rotten neighbor. Theodore’s his name, Marquess of Sutton. He’s the most serious two-year-old you’ve ever met.”

  Mrs. Starrett chimed in, “Count yourself lucky. Though seven is no easy number, all my children tried to turn me an early grey. Into this and into that. Now I sit back and enjoy watching them wrangle their own herds.”

  “Ah, yes, how is everyone?” Drake asked.

  “Well, let’s see, Quinn here has three now, all under five, and all bringing chaos to the vicarage with their antics. Cian lives in London with his wife and son—he’s a solicitor, you know. Briana is in her third confinement and doesn’t live far, so we see her and the babes more than we see her sisters. You’ve not met my other three girls. They were married before we returned to England after Mr. Starrett left the army at last.” She patted her husband’s arm.

  Mary only half listened. The conversation continued, polite and empty of substance. Her eyes were riveted on Duncan. She longed to ask questions, to know why he had not written of his return, to know about the injury, to know everything that had happened since they last parted. Yes, he had written over the years, but the letters were never prolific. How does one compare the written word to spoken poetry? After years of awaiting his return, the atrocities of polite conversation with family bound her.

  His brother, the Reverend Quinn Starrett, rattled on about his children. Mary’s attention faded in and out of the conversation, only skimming the surface enough to know if something important was said, anything about Duncan. Without discretion, she watched him.

  With his every smile, her heart swelled. It was the same smile of old. The low chuckle was all too familiar, as well, one she had heard often beneath the willow, one that tickled her ear when he dipped his lips close to tease her.

  He paid more attention to the conversation than she, or at least he seemed to.
Only a few times did she catch his gaze, feeling no shame whatsoever to be caught so blatantly staring at him. Her eyes devoured him. If she thought him handsome before, she had no descriptor to do him justice now. Commanding. Devastating. Both came to mind, but even they were inadequate.

  He spoke, then, responding to something she had not heard Drake say, diverting her attention back to the conversation.

  “It was a lark, I tell you. If I could go back to battle tomorrow, I would. More fun than one can have in any ballroom,” Duncan said, rubbing his hand once more against his breeches, long fingers gripping a strong thigh.

  Unable to stop herself, she blurted her first words in the conversation. “If you’ve been in England all this time, why am I only now learning of your return?”

  A hush descended. All eyes turned to Mary.

  Duncan hoped she had not caught his grimace. What was he to say in answer? That he had arrived in England on a stretcher? That he had not wanted to alarm her? That he had spent months in London until he could safely ride in a carriage home? That he never wanted her to see him disabled or unable to stand on his own two feet?

  There were no words with which to answer her question. He had hidden from her since arriving home, and that was the truth of it. His father called it convalescing. Duncan called a spade a spade. He had hidden from her.

  With a deep breath, he plastered a smile. “I’m flattered by your concern for my well-being, Lady Mary.”

  His attempts to deflect failed. She returned his non-answer with a frown. All heads swiveled his direction. Bloody awkward.

  Unspoken words wove midair, blanketing them.

  His family knew how he felt about her. Her brother knew how they both felt. And yet never had there been a public understanding. At the time of his departure, he had been nothing more than the youngest son of another youngest son. Granted, his grandfather was a viscount, but that same man had five healthy sons, all of whom had hardy boys of their own. Nothing short of a plague would put him in line to inherit. Even in such an unlikely circumstance, he was a far cry from being of her station or an acceptable match. How was he to answer her question when his goal in leaving for the army had been to become worthy of her hand, and yet he had returned a broken man?